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"He/she was born to ........" (fill in the blank with the appropriate words). It might be any number of things ? run, sing, play hockey, write poetry, act on a stage, administer a large company, serve in the military, police a small town, run a small business, care for a family, etc. etc. etc. Many of us spend our lifetimes trying to discover what the words in the blank space should be. We switch jobs every few years, not because there is something better to go to, but because we're bored with what we're doing. When we fail to discover what we're born to do, the grass always looks greener in someone else's back yard. Some of us never do discover those few words that describe the niche where we belong. Many are just concerned with trying to "make a living." We have to eat, afford a decent place to live, buy the clothes and other necessities that we need. Concern about what we were born to do tends to fade quickly as we face the cold realities of life.

A LEAPING lame man? That doesn't make sense--lame people don't LEAP....and I should know. I'm currently battling an alleged case of bursitis near the left knee--and I don't leap. Limp? I do that well! Somehow, as I try to limp and hopefully leap through these circumstances, I am drawn to a Bible story we all know so well. The crippled man at the Gate Beautiful had sat there for a long time--no microwaveable back pac for the pain, no anti-inflammatory or muscle relaxant medicine, no Dr. Scholl's shoe inserts and no miracle-purported health food magic. He was just plain crippled and probably hurting quite badly.

That is, until one day he would never forget. Peter and John, full of the Holy Spirit, approach the Gate, and the man looks expectantly at them for alms. Silver and gold they have not, but they have something better: "In the Name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk," The lame man rose, walking, leaping and praising the Lord!

A South African man surprised nine men robbing his home. Eight of the robbers ran away, but the homeowner managed to shove one into his backyard pool. After realizing the robber couldn't swim, the homeowner jumped in to save him. The Cape Times reports that once out of the pool, the wet thief called to his friends to come back. Then he pulled a knife and threatened the man who had just rescued him.

The homeowner said "We were still standing near the pool and when I saw the knife I just threw him back in. But he was gasping for air and was drowning. So I rescued him again. I thought he had a cheek trying to stab me after I had just saved his life."¹

I was on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean when I had the first dream. As most dreams are, it was confusing, full of images and scraps of sound that, though vivid and realistic were disjointed and without logical sequence. I had another similar dream on the bus taking me to my hometown back in Canada, then another on the train north, taking me to the isolated fishing lodge where I was to work for the summer. The dreams were full of foreign scenes ? orange-tiled roofs and dark-skinned children from Spain, cheese shops and narrow streets from France, soaring mountains and towering cathedrals from Switzerland.

The trip from Lisbon to my destination in northern Ontario took about 36 hours. By the time I arrived I was disoriented, but had no time to think about it. I went to work immediately and didn't have a chance to relax until later that day when I went for a swim. Floating on a small raft, I soon was dozing in the warm sun. Again, dreams filled my mind with disorienting images and sounds. Then my foot slipped off the raft into the icy water. I woke with a start, staring at a landscape that shocked me. There were no red-tiled roofs or foreign languages, no Gothic cathedrals or cobblestone streets. My eyes opened to rugged cliffs and swaying pines. I knew I was not in Spain, but where was I? Then I realized, "Oh. Canada. I'm home." Home - the place where I was safe, where everything was familiar ? the landscape, the culture, the language.